


save some face / you know you've only got one

by forfree



Category: RPF - Fandom
Genre: ILY, Multi, if ur turned off by blood or vomiting, or alcohol or injuries, steer clear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6442087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forfree/pseuds/forfree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>that one where someone successfully convinces miguel to not be a recluse and he gets himself into a predicament because of it</p>
            </blockquote>





	save some face / you know you've only got one

****With his hands shoved in his pockets and his brow furrowed, Miguel tries to be as optimistic as possible; he figures that, if he psychs himself up, maybe the night’ll go better than he expected. Key word:

 

Maybe.

 

Miguel’s worst nightmare had played out for him in real life the previous day. He’d been invited to a party by his best friend, Naz, even though he’s positive that she knows how much he hates parties. She said he didn’t spend enough time with other people; that he needed to ‘let loose’ and whatnot because he’s in college. According to her, that’s what college is for, aside from going there to get a degree. He now walks on a road illuminated solely by dim streetlights on a Friday night and considers turning around, walking back to his apartment, and studying.

 

He thinks he’d be better off boring himself to death instead of wasting time going to a party where he knows he probably won’t have a good time.

 

On top of the anxiety that the party is inducing, Miguel is walking alone off campus at night, and he’s not deathly afraid of being alone in a location where he could get easily kidnapped, but it’s definitely not something he finds favorable. To add to that fact, he’s wearing a bright orange beanie, so someone could say, “Hey, that person sure is sticking out like a sore thumb. Let’s get him!” and then snatch him. He’s thinking irrationally because of his anxiety, but he still considers his point to be valid, far-fetched or not.

 

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he jumps, sighing loudly as he fishes for it and reads the text he’s received from Naz.

 

**½ OF THE DREAM TEAM (naz :p) - TODAY, 9:36 PM** : Miguelllll where r u at??? You aren’t ditching me again are u?? cuz if so...

 

Naz sends Miguel about twelve middle finger emojis.

 

**½ OF THE DREAM TEAM (naz :p) - TODAY, 9:37 PM:** Still love u tho ☺️ stay safe 

 

Miguel chuckles at her excessive use of the middle finger emoji and texts back, telling her that he should see her in a few minutes. He loved Naz; she was the best friend Miguel could ever ask for, even if she did push his buttons on a regular basis and get him out of his comfort zone at times. Deep down, he’s glad that she encouraged him to go to this party. Without her, he probably wouldn’t be half the person he is currently.

 

He gets so lost in his thoughts that before he knows it, he’s arrived at the fraternity house that the party is supposed to be hosted at. As Miguel approaches the door, a wave of uncertainty washes over him. What if nobody wants to be seen near him? Even worse, what if he ends up embarrassing himself? He messes with the zipper on his hoodie as he thinks of more worst-case scenarios. People push past him and enter the party. Miguel surprises himself. He sticks his foot in the steadily closing space between the door jamb and the door itself before it can close fully, opens the door, and takes a deep breath before making his way inside.

 

Miguel texts Naz and tells her he’s arrived, and it seems like Naz didn’t even have time to read the text, but Miguel looks up from his phone and sees a tipsy Naz walking toward him.

 

“Miguel! I thought you wouldn’t show up. Totally thought you were going to be Miguel the Cave Dweller and ditch me,” Naz says loudly as she slings an arm around Miguel’s shoulders while he rolls his eyes.

 

He doesn’t consider himself to be a ‘cave dweller’ like Naz does, but he will admit that he favors his own company (and Naz’s around ninety percent of the time, they’re roommates) more than anyone else’s. To add to that fact, he’s serious about school (as he should be), so he can be found holed up in his apartment studying at almost any given time. Miguel just tells himself that Naz is probably right (like always). He needs to socialize more.

 

“Wow, Naz. Thanks for the warm welcome,” Miguel replies with a laugh. “I appreciate it.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Naz says with a smile.

 

They walk around the house for a few minutes before Naz strolls away from Miguel wordlessly.

 

“Naz!” Miguel shouts over loud music that seems to make the floor shake. He feels the vibrations in his shoes; it’s unsettling.

 

Naz walks back over to Miguel. “Look- I’m not your mom, man. I know you’re like, my best friend, but you can’t hold on to me and follow me around forever. Eventually, you’re gonna have to start making some kind of effort to socialize- why not start right now? At a party? Y’know, where you’re supposed to do that kind of stuff.”

 

“Naz, c’mon! Just- just let me try that shit at the next party we go to-”

 

“Sorry, bro,” Naz says as she pats Miguel’s back and proceeds to back away from him, “I like, totally can’t hear you over the music!”

 

With that, Miguel watches Naz run off to go do whatever it is that people who are good at talking and making friends do. He’s definitely on his own now. Miguel sighs deeply as he pushes his way through small crowds of people- people he should be mingling and drinking with- as he tries to find a place where he could sit down. He’d sit on one of the couches in the living room, but couples are making out on it and he’s not really into voyeurism like that.

 

His wandering eventually gets him to the back of the house. It’s quieter aside from the slightly muffled music coming from the living room and the occasional (and slightly- scratch that- _very_ disgusting) sounds of people doing god-knows-what in the other rooms and in the hallway. He walks to the end of the hallway after successfully avoiding three couples making out against the wall (one pair of girls had to put their face-eating session on hold so that one could hold the other’s hair while they threw up; they’re lucky that the floors are hardwood) and he’s met with a door.

 

He puts his ear to it and he doesn’t hear a thing, so he figures that there can’t be much harm done in seeing what’s behind it. He opens the door and the first thing he sees is a set of stairs; he’s found the basement. He wants to jump for joy, he’s most likely found a place where he can be alone with his thoughts and not see excessive examples of PDA.

 

Miguel makes his way down the stairs and sees a couch when he gets to the final steps. He looks around to see if anyone could possibly see him, confirms that the coast is, in fact, clear, and he gets a running start. He dives onto the couch with a smile on his face and gets into a more comfortable position, his feet barely hanging off of the arm of the sofa opposite the one his head’s resting on.

 

He lies on the couch and relaxes for what seems like an entire minute before two boys stumble into the basement, unable to keep their hands off of each other. Miguel watches in horror (and slight disgust) as they near the couch he’s on, and he moves his legs right before they both fall on them and then proceed to make out.

 

Miguel sighs and sits up. “Maybe this is like, a weird-ass sign,” Miguel says to himself. “Maybe I really should go socialize tonight.”

 

The couple next to him stops what they’re doing and looks at him.

 

“What? Did I step on your moment or something?” Miguel asks, awkward as ever and slightly bitter.

 

“You know, you really should go have fun,” one boy says earnestly.

 

The boy that’s currently lying under the giver of unwarranted advice pipes up. “Yeah, I totally agree. You should open up more! I see you in my biochemistry class like, all the time, and you’re always so quiet. Well, like, except for when you’re talking to that one girl.”

 

“I’m-”

 

“By the way,” the first boy interrupts, “Are y’all like, together?”

 

“No,” Miguel answers. “And thanks for that advice. I might actually try not to be such a stick-in-the-mud. I hope I didn’t totally kill you guys’ mood. Have a good night, you guys.” He gets off of the couch and makes his way up the stairs.

 

“Have fun!”

 

“Yeah, don’t be afraid to let loose! See you in class on Monday!”

 

“Thanks,” Miguel calls back with a chuckle.

 

With that, he’s making his way back to the living room, where he hears a bass-boosted Tyler, The Creator song playing. That alone makes him consider going back to the basement for a second, but he forces himself to get over his secondhand embarrassment and get something to drink.

 

He walks to the kitchen, where he finds more people making out on counters and tables and getting each other into experimental drug use.

 

“Excuse me,” Miguel says awkwardly to a couple that’s dry humping in front of the punch bowl on the kitchen counter.

 

“What did you say?”

 

“I’m just trying to get punch. You’re kind of... in the way. Sorry,” Miguel says loudly, trying to talk over the music. The couple he’s talking to moves out of his way with hasty apologies.

 

Miguel’s torn between choosing what he assumes to be fruit punch and what he assumes to be some type of pink lemonade drink. He goes for the fruit punch because he is a simple man who likes the simple things in life. Plus, he’s really suspicious of whatever might be in that pink punch. Then again, he’s pretty suspicious of almost every single alcoholic drink at this party.

 

After Miguel gets his drink, he decides to look around some more. His favorite songs start to come on, and he nods along to the music. His mood starts to lighten up and he says hello to a few people he knows from his classes. He thinks he finally might be enjoying himself; he watches people dance and starts to make conversation.

 

As that dies down, Miguel’s left to his own devices again, so he finds an empty spot on a wall, leans on it, and reflects on the night he’s had so far. He bets Naz is watching him from wherever she is and giving herself a pat on the back. He chuckles at the thought.

 

Miguel finishes his drink and heads back to the kitchen to get a refill, and while he’s getting his drink, he can’t help but to feel like he’s being watched. He surveys the living room as he walks through it, retracing his steps. He can’t really see anyone clearly; the room is pretty dark aside from the light from lamps that are on in some corners of the room. The lamps have colored bulbs in them, and if Miguel’s goal for the night hadn’t been to avoid negativity, he’d say that colored light bulbs are a pretty childish choice for a party thrown by college students and that they look tacky.

 

Miguel’s back on the wall again. His gaze is fixated on his shoes as he tries to ignore the feeling that someone’s eyes are glued to him. Ten minutes pass; in that time, he checks his watch every few seconds, considers texting Naz, and finishes his drink. Most of all, he considers screaming out of frustration. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should just wait and see if anyone comes to him.

 

He’s too impatient for that, so he dismisses the thought.

 

* * *

 

 

For about the tenth time in the span of an hour and a half, Miguel sighs. He puts his cup on the floor next to his feet, shoves his hands in his pockets, and looks at the opposite wall.

 

His eyes are automatically drawn to a lamp sitting in the corner. It’s tall, there’s no lampshade on it, and Miguel stares at the bare lightbulb that’s emitting a soft blue glow. Next, his eyes go to the person standing next to it.

 

Miguel’s never really been wrong many times in his life, so when he thinks he’s just laid eyes on an angel, nobody can tell him otherwise. They can try, at least, but he won’t listen to them, so it doesn’t matter.

 

The things that stand out about this person to Miguel so far are that they’re way taller than he is, they look beautiful bathed in the blue light of the lamp next to them, and that they’re staring directly at Miguel.

 

“Well, that solves my problem,” Miguel mumbles. “I guess.”

 

As soon as he finishes his sentence, the stranger starts walking toward him.

 

Miguel’s rooted to his spot as he looks around frantically, trying his best to avoid their eyes as they get closer. He gets the bright idea to come off as someone who is cool and totally unfazed by acting like he’s texting someone. The problem is, he’s so frantic about doing so that he taps away at his phone while it’s not even on.

 

Miguel doesn’t have to look up to know that the person is now standing right before him. Their height makes him feel as if they’re looming over him; it makes him feel small. He begins to somewhat forcefully jab at his phone like that’ll somehow get him out of the situation.

 

“Who you textin’? You tryin’ to break your phone, man? Damn.”

 

Miguel forces himself to stop what he’s doing. “Oh, I was just texting my friend Naz, and-”

 

The stranger extends his hand for Miguel to shake as he cut him off. “I’m Jermaine- my friends call me J- and I’ve had a few drinks,” he says, his words slurring together a decent amount, but less than Miguel would’ve expected. “Okay. More than a few drinks, man, but that’s not the point.”

 

Miguel shakes Jermaine’s hand. “I’m Miguel.”

 

“No,” Jermaine shakes his head and burps. “Sorry about that. You’re- fuck. P? Peter Pan? No- you’re that puppet guy. Pinocchio. And your nose is growing.”

 

Miguel chuckles. “And why is that?”

 

“Because…”

 

“Because why?” Miguel asks. He finds himself to be really close to breaking out into a fit of giggles.

 

“‘Cause, you a liar, man,” Jermaine answers with a laugh. “Your phone is off. You ain’t textin’ nobody. Plus, I saw Naz like, ten minutes ago, and one of her girlfriends took her phone ‘cause she was gettin’ a little too wild.”

 

Miguel finds out that he is surprisingly stellar when it comes to self-restraint, seeing as he’s currently fighting immensely hard to not to groan in frustration and promptly eject himself from the entire situation.

 

“You caught me, Jermaine,” Miguel tells him. When he says his name, he sees Jermaine smile a bit wider. Miguel wonders if his eyes could be fooling him. “If it weren’t so dark, you’d be able to see my nose growing.”

 

Jermaine grins widely before he laughs again, and Miguel’s stomach is full of butterflies. He wishes he could take a video of this moment so he can hear and see it anytime he wants, and he finds this fact to be pretty corny.

 

“Walk with me, Miguel.”

 

Miguel’s heart practically jumps into his throat at the way his name sounds coming out of Jermaine’s mouth. He’s so dumbfounded by it that he can’t really think of anything important or witty to say.

 

“Huh? Why?” he asks.

 

“ _Huh? Why?_ ” Jermaine parrots lightheartedly. “You zoning out on me, man? Someone’s had a little too much to drink-”

 

Miguel scowls and tries his best to act as if he’s not planning on making a Pinterest board for the wedding that he’s totally going to have with Jermaine. “Hey, no- and I’ve only had like, one and a half drinks. Anyway, where are you trying to go?”

 

“I was gonna go get something to drink.”

 

“You need my help to get another drink?”

 

“God,” Jermaine answers overdramatically as he grabs Miguel’s shoulders and looks him in the eye. “Yes! I do! Help me get one drink closer to making myself look as foolish as possible, Miguel. Please, I’m begging you, help me get completely fucked up tonight.”

 

Miguel stares at Jermaine in silence for a second or two before he breaks out into a fit of laughter.

 

“You’re fucking weird, man,” Miguel says in between laughs. “I’ll go with you, though.”

 

Jermaine wordlessly makes a beeline for the kitchen, where he gently pushes people aside in order to get to the fridge and open it. He grabs two bottles of beer with one hand.

 

“Get me some water,” Miguel says. He sees Jermaine pause for a moment before he grabs a bottle of water.

 

Jermaine turns around and hands Miguel his water. “Here you go.”

 

“Thanks,” Miguel says as he attempts take the bottle from Jermaine, who doesn’t let go of it and instead opts to stare Miguel down in an eerily expecting manner.

 

“Get me some water…” Jermaine trails off.

 

“What?”

 

Jermaine sighs and rolls his eyes. “Let me try again,” he says before he begins to impersonate Miguel. “Jermaine, get me some water!” It’s an overly exaggerated imitation of him, and Miguel rolls his eyes.

 

“Man, what the fuck is that?” Miguel asks, more concerned than confused. He really wants to ask Jermaine if he really thinks it’s a good choice to continue drinking if he’s already this incoherent.

 

“What sounds fucked up about what I just said to you?” Jermaine answers with another question.

 

“How the fuck should I know?”

 

“You didn’t say ‘please,’” Jermaine says with an annoyed groan.

 

“Who are you, my mother?” Miguel tuts at Jermaine disapprovingly.

 

“Say it.”

 

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m eighteen years old, not five, and you definitely don’t seem like you’re old enough to be my mother OR my father,” Miguel says as he tries to yank the water bottle toward himself. “I just want my water, man.”

  


“Hey, I’m nineteen, I’m older than you, so respect your elders. You won’t get your water until you say it.” Jermaine yanks the bottle away from Miguel before he smirks. “Looks like someone’s got a little attitude, huh?”

 

“Yeah, I do-”

 

“How cute is that,” Jermaine says with a chuckle. Miguel scowls.

 

“Give me my water.”

 

“Please?” Jermaine smiles.

 

“Fuck, please, like- God! There you go. Please give me my water, Jermaine, and stop playing with me like this.” Miguel yanks the bottle toward himself once more and Jermaine lets him have it.

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Miguel stays silent.

 

“Lighten up, Miguel! I was just havin’ a laugh with you!” Jermaine pats Miguel on the back and his expression softens when he sees Miguel continue to be cold. “Hey, I hope I didn’t make you upset- I made you upset, didn’t I?”

 

Miguel rushes to tell Jermaine that no, he is not upset, he is just slightly annoyed at him, and that he will get over it. Jermaine’s face lights up, and Miguel’s never felt better.

 

“You wanna see something cool?” Jermaine asks after a few minutes of silently listening to the energetic song being spun by the overenthusiastic DJ.

 

“I’m scared, but why not?” Miguel replies.

 

“Watch how fast I can drink these beers.”

 

“Jermaine, why would you want to-”

 

“Fuck all of that.”

 

Jermaine uses the counter next to him to open one of the bottles in his hands before he begins to drink its contents quickly. Miguel finds himself to be both amazed and concerned when Jermaine finishes that and starts on his second bottle much faster than Miguel anticipates. People begin to surround them and begin to egg Jermaine on just as he finishes his second bottle of beer.

 

Someone from the small group of people around them shoves a plastic cup into Jermaine’s hand and he drinks it. When he finishes, he starts to shout. “Jungle Juice? Fuck!”

 

“What the hell is Jungle Juice?” Miguel asks himself.

 

“Jungle Juice, my friend, is the stuff of legends,” someone next to him says.

 

“I’d know that voice anywhere. Mac from music theory?” Miguel asks as he turns to the person speaking.

 

“Miguel! What’s up? Small world.”

 

“Well, I’m here- obviously, and I still don’t get it,” Miguel says. “What’s Jungle Juice?”

 

“Two handles of vodka- three-point-five liters if getting geeky about shit makes you feel some type of way, one liter of Everclear, two cans of limeade concentrate, a pair of two-liter bottles of sprite, two cans of Kool Aid- everyone was like, ‘Mac, don’t pick something fruity!’ and I was like, ‘God, let yourselves be held back by negative gender stereotyping even though it’s just a bunch of potential flavoring for alcohol, fine, whatever,’ so I picked lemon-lime,” Mac explains. “Oh, and ice and water. Put it into one of those Gatorade buckets they toss on athletes at sporting events and you’ve got yourself some frat-worthy shit, man. You can also put some frozen fruit in it if you’re worried about presentation.”

 

Miguel, a known lightweight, refrains from dry heaving. “That sounds terrible, Mac.”

 

“It kinda is, but it’s fun to watch people get fucked up. Speaking of…” Mac points toward Jermaine. “Looks like your friend is already there.”

 

“How many do you think he’s had?” Miguel asks.

 

“I’d say he’s had about three.” Mac says as he observes Jermaine, who starts on another cup as soon as he gets his sentence out. “Make that three and a half.”

 

“Fuck,” Miguel mutters as he watches the crowd disperse. He assumes they’ve found things more interesting and dangerous to partake in. He turns to Jermaine and gently grabs the drink that he currently has up to his mouth. “I think we should ease up on the drinks, huh?”

 

Jermaine frowns. “Man, I was on a-”

 

Jermaine burps.

 

“Roll?” Miguel asks.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Ok, I understand that! Let’s just give it a rest for a little while. Do it for me, J?”

 

“Hey,” Jermaine says with a small laugh. “You called me J.”

 

“I did. Why don’t we take a walk around? How’s that sound?” Miguel asks. He also wants to ask himself why he’s taking it upon himself to babysit a drunk nineteen-year-old, but he can’t be bothered.

 

He leads Jermaine around the dimly-lit house and attempts to find anyone that knows him or can at least drive him home. He’s not successful, so he tells Jermaine that they’re going to get fresh air and he takes him outside, where Jermaine sees someone and shouts something incoherently before he promptly throws up on the lawn and narrowly misses Miguel’s shoes in the process.

 

After Jermaine finishes throwing up, he speaks. “Hey. There’s your friend. What’s her name? Yaz or somethin’. Raz. Jaz. I ’on’t fuckin’ know, man.” Jermaine gestures past Miguel.

 

Sure enough, Miguel sees Naz. “Let’s go have a chat with Naz, Jermaine,” Miguel says as he drags his new acquaintance along.

 

“Miguel!” Naz shouts, drawing his name out. “How’s the party goin’?”

 

“Can’t say it’s not eventful, Naz,” Miguel answers. “Anyway, more importantly, are you staying safe? Has anyone tried to mess with you? Do you have a ride home? You’re not planning on driving, are you?”

 

“No, _mom_ , someone’s driving me home, I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m drinkin’ water, I’m fuckin’ drunk as hell, though. I feel great...” Naz trails off and looks at something behind Miguel with a puzzled expression on her face.

 

“Naz? What’s up?”

 

“Oh my god,” Naz begins. ”Did you score? Are you taking that boy home? Who is that?”

 

“What are you talking about?” Miguel asks as he turns to see what Naz is looking at.

 

Miguel finds Jermaine climbing a tree about five feet away.

 

He hangs from a dangerously weak-looking branch and shouts, “Hey! I’m a monkey, y’all! Oh my god, this is the best thing I’ve ever done, look at this!” He laughs loudly and messes around for what seems like a full minute before he falls from the tree and groans in pain.

“That’s Jermaine. For once, someone is more wasted than you are,” Miguel explains.

 

“Oh, Jermaine from my economics class? Small world.”

 

“Yeah, small world. I have to get him home, though. He’s fucked up beyond belief. No one here can tell me if they know him and they’re definitely not sober enough to drive him home.”

 

“I get it,” Naz says. “Do what you have to.”

 

“I’ll call you when we get home.”

 

“Have fun!” Naz says enthusiastically before she turns away from Miguel and yells something at one of her friends.

 

Jermaine makes the decision to stay on the ground until Miguel is finished talking to Naz, and for that, Miguel is very grateful.

 

“You ready to go home, J?”

 

“I think so. My ass hurts. I fell right on it.”

 

“Yeah, you did, I definitely saw it.” Miguel helps Jermaine get back onto his feet. “Jermaine, can I ask you a question?”

 

“Yes! Yeah, definitely, Miguel.  Anything for a pretty ass boy like you.”

 

Miguel forces himself to laugh so that he doesn’t get caught looking stupefied. “That’s very kind of you to say, J.”

 

Jermaine chuckles.

 

* * *

 

 

None of this should feel as romantic or as special as it does, because Jermaine’s so drunk that he casually threw up mere minutes ago and he and Miguel are at a frat party amongst other people around their age doing the same. Miguel isn’t entirely turned off when it comes to whatever’s going on between him and Jermaine, though, but he’ll save the guesswork for a time when he’s not trying to take a drunk nineteen-year-old home safely.

 

“Where do you live?” Miguel asks.

 

“Oh, word? That’s what you tryin’ to do, then?” Jermaine asks with a smirk as he looks down at Miguel. “You coulda just told me straight up that you was feelin’ me like that, baby, shit. I surely wouldn’t have minded. ”

 

Miguel wants to scream; he’s really trying his best to not lose his patience. He’s also making a great effort on hanging on to the last shreds of self control he has, because he wants to drag Jermaine home by his legs as he kicks and screams more than anything he’s wanted ever in life, but he also wants to jump in Jermaine’s arms and let the night take them wherever it decides to. He knows the latter would be wrong, though.

 

Miguel smiles at Jermaine and grabs him by the arm. “You’re entirely too drunk for that, but I appreciate the offer, you’re too kind.”

 

“I live in the museum district. My mom jokes around and tells her friends that I live near Picasso and Van Gogh and all of them other dudes.”

 

“I see where you get your wit and charm from, J,” Miguel says as he begins the long walk to the museum district and drags Jermaine along with him.

 

Jermaine gives Miguel a crooked smile. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Miguel says as he returns a kind smile. “So, what are you majoring in?”

 

“Business.”

 

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about that, Jermaine. You thinkin’ of going for something different?” Miguel asks.

 

“Fuckin’- Gimme a minute,” Jermaine slurs. He turns toward the grass that runs along the sidewalk and doubles over as if he’s about to throw up and stays in the same position for a minute before he spits and lets out a sigh. “I fuckin’ hate it. In high school, a bunch of people I knew told me that I’d do great pursuing a degree in business or whatever the fuck. I hate it.”

 

Miguel frowns. “What are you interested in?”

 

“Computer science.”

 

“So, like,” Miguel grins. “You’re into that hacker-type shit? That’s awesome.”

 

Jermaine chuckles. “Yes! I’m so into technology, ’s’not even funny, man. I haven’t told anyone that I wanna go into it though, so don’t tell my mom. Promise?”

 

“Promise. We can even shake on it.” Miguel stops walking and extends his hand for Jermaine to shake.

 

Jermaine smiles widely, his cheeks flushed due to all the alcohol he’s consumed. “Good.” He stops and shakes Miguel’s hand.

 

Miguel feels as if electricity shoots through his hand and into his entire body when they touch; he considers taking advantage of Jermaine’s drunkenness and telling him that they need to hold hands the entire way home- you know, just to stay safe or whatever.

 

Jermaine walks a short distance behind Miguel, and since Miguel has taken it upon himself to care for him, he does so. “You okay back there, J?”

 

“Look at this big fuckin’... stick, nigga.”

 

Miguel turns around just in time to witness Jermaine bend over to pick the stick up, lose his balance, and fall over into the grass.

 

“Shit,” Miguel says, rushing over to him. “Are you okay?”

 

“I’m great, but you should come down here.”

 

“Jermaine, I’d love to- I really would- but we’ve gotta get you home,” Miguel answers.

 

“I’m not getting up until you sit here with me for at least five minutes,” Jermaine says, drunk and stubborn as ever.

 

Miguel rolls his eyes. “Fine. Five minutes.”

 

“I’ll even time it on my phone to make you feel better.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

Part of Miguel hopes that they lose track of time and that the world starts to revolve and plan around them.

 

“Doesn’t this grass feel so fuckin’ soft?” Jermaine asks as he begins to move his limbs on the grass as if he’s making a snow angel. “Like sitting on a fuckin’ cloud, bro. Like, this grass is what being around you feels like.”

 

“Being around me feels like lying on a mysterious wet spot and having pine needles poke at you? I’m glad I make you feel that way,” Miguel says with a quiet laugh.

 

“Move closer to me, then. You’re sitting too far away from me anyway, but don’t fuckin’ sit where you don’t wanna sit.”

 

Miguel’s heart rate quickens as he debates whether or not he should get closer. He decides against it.

 

“You wanna hear a joke, J?” Miguel asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“What do you call a criminal that goes downstairs?”

 

“I’on’t know.”

 

“Condescending,” Miguel says. He tries his best to hold in a snort and fails miserably.

 

Jermaine sits up. “What the fuck? I don’t get it.”

 

Miguel sits up as well. “‘Cause, a criminal is also called a con. When you go downstairs, you descend. Con-descending. It’s a con descending.”

 

“Shit!” Jermaine exclaims and begins to laugh. “Oh my god, condescending! I get it, it’s ‘cause he’s- oh my goodness, that’s too much, man!”

 

Miguel beams as he watches Jermaine enjoy his joke. Soon enough, he realizes that it’s way too late for them to be out in the state that they’re both in.

 

“C’mon Jermaine,” Miguel says as he quickly gets to his feet.

 

“Do we really gotta get up so soon?” Jermaine whines.

 

“We can find a better place for you to lie down at home, Jermaine, so why don’t we go there?” Miguel says. The conversation reminds him of a parent talking to a child who doesn’t want to go to bed.

 

Jermaine hums as if he’s considering the suggestion. Miguel is torn between feeling very annoyed and being endeared.

 

“Okay. Let’s go,” Jermaine says, attempting to get up.

 

Once he attempts to get to his feet, Jermaine stumbles a bit, so Miguel helps him. When he’s stable, they continue the walk to the museum district.

 

“You know somethin’, Miguel?” Jermaine asks.

 

“I won’t know what that ‘something’ is until you tell me, Jermaine,” Miguel replies as he walks beside Jermaine, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

 

“I learned a little bit of Spanish last week. Wanna,” Jermaine hiccups. “Wanna hear some?”

 

“Why not? Show me what you’ve got,” Miguel replies.

 

“Alright. Anoche soñé contigo y- fuck, this is so hard to remember- esta... manana no me quiero despertar,” Jermaine says, his pronunciation complete garbage due to his drunken state.

 

_Last night I dreamed of you and this morning I did not want to wake up._

 

“I’m… impressed. Humor me, Jermaine, do you know what that phrase means?” Miguel asks, knowing that Jermaine either doesn’t know the meaning or doesn’t remember it because he’s so drunk.

 

He knows it may be a little wrong, but if he was noble and caring enough to initially take responsibility for a walking, talking, far-from-sober tree branch, he should be able to have some fun, too.

 

“Nope,” Jermaine answers. “I heard it somewhere. Sounds nice, though. What’s it mean?”

 

“Last night I dreamed of you and this morning I did not want to wake up,” Miguel tells him. When the words come from his own mouth, the only thing he regrets about them is that he probably won’t have the chance to say them to Jermaine ever again.

 

“But you didn’t even know me this morning,” Jermaine says.

 

“No, J, what you said in Spanish means that you dreamt of me last night and didn’t want to wake up,” Miguel tells him.

 

“Fuck, that’s some heavy, poetic shit,” Jermaine says. “You know what else is poetic? You.”

 

Miguel makes a noise of contentment as he steps over a jagged crack in the sidewalk. “How so?”

 

“Even under these cheap, dingy streetlights, you’re looking like an angel,” Jermaine explains. “And now you’re taking me home and listening to me and we’re making each other laugh. ‘S’almost like a date if you ask me.”

 

“Oh, so that’s why you’re laying it on so thick? ‘Cause this is a date now?” Miguel asks with a laugh. “Do you romance everyone you’ve just met like this?”

 

“Yes and hell yes. And the best part? You can’t back out ‘cause I’m piss drunk, and if you abandon me, you’ll look like an asshole,” Jermaine says.

 

“Well, damn. Looks like I’ve been conned into going out with you and I’ve only known you for about,” Miguel checks the time on his phone. “An hour and a half. I bet that’s a world record.”

 

Jermaine gives Miguel a lopsided grin. “I bet it is.”

 

* * *

 

 

Miguel enjoys the comfortable silence that ensues; he feels sleepy and a little tipsy. He takes in his surroundings. A scimitar-shaped moon hangs over their heads, bright, calming, a bringer of ease in the hectic and unplanned night. He fixes his gaze on street signs they pass. One of them catches his eye.

 

WELCOME

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE MUSEUM DISTRICT

  


Miguel perks up and yanks on Jermaine’s sleeve. “Hey, J, we’re in the museum district. This is where you said you live, right?”

 

Jermaine nods. “Yeah, I live around here.”

 

“Where exactly?” Miguel asks.

 

“The cheapest apartments I could find here, that’s where exactly,” Jermaine replies.

 

“No shame in that. We’re in college, we’re all broke.”

 

“Yeah, but when you see where I live, you’ll lose your mind, and not in a good way.”

 

They catch a bus to Jermaine’s apartment complex, and when Miguel sees that it was right next to a construction site, he understands why Jermaine probably despises living there.

 

“I can barely study, I can barely relax- Fuck,” Jermaine spits on the ground. “I can barely fuckin’ think. I’m thankful that they don’t work all through the night.”

 

“Hey, look at it this way: At least the rent’s not as high as it could be,” Miguel said.

 

Jermaine groans, annoyed. He then unceremoniously spits on the sidewalk in front of his residence again. “I’m really sleepy,” Jermaine slurs, leaning slightly as he talks.

 

“You are such a mess,” Miguel says quietly. “Let’s get you inside.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Like, I’m super sleepy,” Jermaine says as he slings an arm around Miguel’s shoulder, feeling the need to reiterate.

 

“I know, I am too,” Miguel says.

 

He doesn’t think anyone will ever understand how much he wishes that Jermaine had his arms around him under different circumstances.

 

There was no time to mess around with those feelings at the moment, though. Miguel walks Jermaine to the entrance of his apartment building, and if that wasn’t a chore (Jermaine kept getting distracted), then Miguel doesn’t know what is.

 

“Which apartment’s yours, J?” Miguel asks.

 

“505. We have to go upstairs,” Jermaine answers, sleepy and adorable as ever. “It’s where my bed is.”

 

He has to get Jermaine (a six-foot-three college student whose blood alcohol level is probably so high that he’ll still feel a little drunk the next morning) up a flight of stairs.

 

“Well, we’d better get to it, I guess,” Miguel says. “Stalling won’t fix things.”

 

Surprisingly, dragging Jermaine up a flight of stairs isn’t as strenuous or time-consuming as he’d assumed it would be. Miguel figures that it’s due to Jermaine being so desperate to find a place to sleep. Although the entire process didn’t take as long as he’d feared, Miguel still had to sit through Jermaine asking if he could take ‘a few moments’ to sit on the stairs, where he’d rest his head against the wall and doze off until Miguel made him wake up.

 

Miguel, observing Jermaine, takes in how completely and utterly out-of-order he is at the moment and he realizes how much he truly does pity him.

 

“Jermaine, do you have the key to your apartment with you?” Miguel asks as they approach apartment number 505.

 

Jermaine digs around in his back pocket for the key and finds it, trying and failing to unlock the door. He misses the doorknob constantly and finally resorts to jabbing at his door and its handle with the key repeatedly.

 

Miguel sighs and takes the key from his hand.

 

“Hey,” Jermaine protests. “That’s my key.”

 

Something in Miguel snaps.

 

“Listen, Jermaine,” Miguel begins, putting biting emphasis on his new acquaintance’s name. “Do you know how drunk you are as of-”

 

Jermaine’s eyebrows raise at Miguel’s question.

 

“1:35 AM?”

 

“No,” Jermaine answers.

 

“Well, I don’t take an interest in chemistry just to have something to brag about,” Miguel says, his tone filled with a type of exhaustion that one can only describe as something one would hear from someone who’s fed up and willing to do whatever it takes to catch a break. “When you take all the alcohol you consumed and then figure in the time you’ve allowed for it to act, it’s pretty safe to say that your blood alcohol level is well- let me repeat that so you don’t think this is something funny or cute, _well_ \- over the legal fucking limit.”

 

Jermaine opens his mouth to speak.

 

“No! Shut the fuck up, I’m not done!” Miguel exclaims. “You’ve been stabbing at your door with your own fucking key for two minutes and I didn’t walk almost an entire two miles and then ride a public bus- which wouldn’t be a negative thing if it weren’t for the fact that I sat in yet another puddle of unknown liquid- for another three just to see you do that weird shit. So let me fucking unlock this door and help you so you can get over this hangover quicker and I can at least get some kind of rest and actually be a productive member of society, you drunk piece of shit.”

 

No one said that talking about your feelings when you were at the end of your rope was wrong, but on the other hand, no one said that you had to be so mean to someone who you decided to help and who enjoyed said help and your presence.

 

In other words, Miguel felt really guilty for unloading all of that on Jermaine.

 

Jermaine slumped against the doorframe and groaned quietly, his eyes fluttering shut and his head tilting back, the now-exposed column of his throat a sight to see in the dim light of the hallway.

 

Miguel had thought he’d lost all of his self restraint with.. whatever that was… that he’d unloaded on Jermaine, but he was wrong. Laughably wrong, disastrously wrong, shockingly wrong. He’d still had shreds of some in him, but he got uncomfortably close to losing those when Jermaine responded the way he did.

 

“I dunno what it is about that,” Jermaine’s smiling crookedly and his voice is quiet- far from a whisper, but still low enough to where whatever he said would stay between them- and he sounds appreciative. “But when people go all, like, postal on me- all demanding- shit gets me feelin’ some type of way. Can’t explain it, I really can’t.”

 

“Christ,” Miguel mutters miserably as his previously angry expression softens and he feels a horrible mixture of butterflies and heat churn in his stomach. He unlocks the door to Jermaine’s apartment, his voice rising to a normal level as he talks to Jermaine. “You’ll really see ‘postal’ if we don’t get you into bed, pal.”

 

“So soon? You didn’t even take me to dinner first,” Jermaine slurs, giggling as he follows Miguel into the apartment and fumbles around for the lightswitch.

 

If the circumstances were different, Miguel would say, ‘Fuck dinner,’ and further appease Jermaine by doing nothing but churning a lot more groans than giggles out of him (but maybe not, he likes to hear Jermaine laugh) for as long as he’d be allowed to do so.

 

But Jermaine is drunk, so much so that he’s close to possibly becoming a sleepy sexual deviant, and Miguel is stuck with the task of taking care of him. He figures that it’s both of their faults. You can’t charm someone and expect them not to attempt to take you home in some way, but you also can’t catch feelings for the first person that flirts with you at a party.

 

Miguel sighs and shakes his head as he takes a look around the apartment. It’s more spacious than he’d originally assumed it to be, but it’s no palace.

Miguel hears a glass break and immediately turns toward the sound to see Jermaine cursing and looking at the floor with a scowl and he sighs for the umpteenth time that night. As he goes to assess the damages, he notices that Jermaine’s disappeared from view.

 

Miguel quickly learns that no, Jermaine hasn’t left the premises, he’s just made the terribly unintelligent decision to take it upon himself to pick up the shards of glass scattered on the floor.

 

Miguel hears him hiss painfully. “Fuck, that hurts!”

 

“Jermaine,” Miguel says as he rushes over to him and grabs his wrists to make him stop attempting to pick up any more glass, which he had handfuls of. “Drop the glass, c’mon. Let me fix your hands.”

 

Jermaine looks down, watches as blood drips from his hand and onto the white leather of his Nike sneakers. “Aw,” Jermaine says with a sour expression, wincing when Miguel turns his hands over to look at the wounds on them. “I’d just found these at the thrift store like, a week ago. Hadn’t even gotten a chance to break ‘em in.”

 

“It’s okay, J, we’ll find a way to fix that after you’re taken care of,” Miguel replies softly, as if he’s talking to a five year old who’s just scraped their knee. He feels ridiculous doing it, but on the other hand, it feels nice. Taking care of someone he now cares a little bit about feels gratifying in a way. “Where’s your bathroom?”

 

“It’s in my room.”

 

“What?” Miguel asks.

 

“You’ve gotta go to my room to find it,” Jermaine says.

 

“Jermaine, stop trying to get me-”

 

“No,” Jermaine interrupts. “It’s in my room. My hands hurt.”

 

“Oh,” Miguel says.

 

Jermaine directs Miguel to his bathroom, where Miguel turns on the light, catching his and Jermaine’s reflection in the mirror. They both look tired, but Jermaine looks strangely sated on top of it. He isn’t moaning about the pain as incessantly as most people would, and Miguel attributes that to the amount of alcohol in his system. Miguel also notices just how tall Jermaine is, how he’s awkwardly hunched over him because his hands are in Miguel’s.

 

Miguel forces himself to focus on the situation at hand (no pun intended). He gingerly lets go of Jermaine’s hands and tells him not to let them touch anything as he washes his hands. He then asks if he has any dishwashing liquid.

 

“I- I guess,” Jermaine says.

 

“Great,” Miguel says, drying his hands and abandoning Jermaine to run to the kitchen and get soap. When he comes back, Jermaine looks puzzled.

 

“You’re not washing my hands right now, and you’re definitely not doing it with that,” Jermaine says.

 

“We have to, buddy. Gonna hurt like an absolute motherfucker, of course,” Miguel says sympathetically as he turns the water back on and gets a towel. “But we have to. This soap is the kind that says it’s gentle on your hands anyway, so it won’t be as bad as it could be. Do you really want your hands to stay dirty so you can get an infection and then have them fall off? ”

 

Jermaine looks mortified.

 

“That’s what I thought. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll count to three before I put your hands under the water,” Miguel offers.

 

Jermaine smiles. “I think- I think that’d be great.”

 

“Alright,” Miguel tells him as he takes both of his hands in his own. “One, two.”

 

Miguel winces as he shoves Jermaine’s hands under the warm water and hears him curse loudly.

 

“Sorry, J,” Miguel says as he gets soap and a washcloth and works on Jermaine’s cut hands. “Had to.”

 

Jermaine curses under his breath before he looks at Miguel. “Fuckin’ hurts,” he whines, sharply inhaling every time Miguel touches one of his wounds.

 

“I know,” Miguel says quietly as he looks at Jermaine’s hands intently. They’re slightly bony but they’re strong, and his fingers are long, and Miguel wonders if Jermaine plays piano. That’s not his top priority, though; only thing he really cares about is how Jermaine’s hands feel in his, how they seem to fit together so effortlessly. He feels as if he’s getting distracted by Jermaine’s hands, so he puts them under the stream of water (that’s slowly becoming lukewarm) from the faucet. “It’s gotta hurt now so you won’t be hurting any worse later. I’m pretty much done now, though. Got any gauze, or like, band-aids?”

 

“Uh, maybe,” Jermaine answers. “My roommate Matt had this girl over- he boxes or whatever- and I guess she’s studying to be a nurse or whatever because she patched him up and stuff ‘cause he got beat up I guess. She started talking about how she wants a job at this hospital upstate; she left a bunch of her stuff here after they studied together.”

 

Miguel nods. “So, what’s Matt looking into?”

 

Jermaine snorts. “Religious studies or some shit.”

 

Miguel glances at Jermaine, puzzled. “What’s so funny about that?”

 

“He never studies when she comes over,” Jermaine tells Miguel. “The walls are kinda thin, so I can always hear them, you know?”

 

“Oh? And what exactly do you hear, J?” Miguel inquires.

 

“Sometimes he’s just talking to her about who knows what, but sometimes? Sometimes he’ll be like,” Jermaine laughs and tries to do his best imitation of his roommate, who apparently sounds very monotonous. “‘Claire, that’s blasphemous.’ ‘Claire, my roommate’s here, keep it down.’ ‘Claire, you know how I get when we start conversing in Spanish.’”

 

“I surely don’t have to guess about the blasphemy part,” Miguel says with a smile and a laugh. “Don’t have to guess about any of that, actually. Seems like Matt and Claire have a nice thing going on.”

 

Jermaine groans. “No,” Jermaine says, drawing out the syllable, sarcasm dripping from the word like water from a leaky faucet. “They’re so obnoxious! Always spendin’ time together and havin’ sex and shit.”

 

“What? You jealous or somethin’? You don’t have anyone to do that with?” Miguel fears his question comes out wrong, but he still has to know nonetheless. It’s selfish, he knows, but he can’t help it.

 

“Very jealous, and nope,” Jermaine answers. “Wish I did, though.”

 

Miguel can’t look him in the eye. He looks down at Jermaine’s hands in his as he dries them. The cuts on his hands vary in size; they’re an angry red, a stark contrast to the light shade of his skin, and it’s almost as if they form a sort of map on it. Miguel once again tries not to get too caught up in his observations. “So where’s that stuff that girl left?”

 

“I put everything Claire left here in that cabinet behind you.”

 

Miguel turns around and looks in the cabinet, finding what he needs quickly. He forces himself to make conversation as he works.

 

“Y’know, you’re gonna have quite the hangover tomorrow,” Miguel says as he starts to wrap gauze around Jermaine’s palm. He inhales sharply and Miguel jumps. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

 

Jermaine shakes his head. “Nah, I’m just a little jumpy ‘cause my hands hurt, I guess,” he says, looking at his hands as Miguel bandages them. “You’re fine. Also, I know. I usually don’t drink much, but I don’t know what happened tonight.”

 

“Well, if I recall correctly, you said, ‘Watch how fast I can drink these beers,’ and then I did exactly that, I watched you drink a bunch of beer- and a terrible amount of some horrifying mixture of like, ten different liquors and fruit juice- in record time,” Miguel explains.

 

“Well, fuck,” Jermaine says.

 

“Yeah, I don’t know if any amount of water can save you from how you’re gonna feel when you wake up,” Miguel replies as he finishes with Jermaine’s hands, putting bandaids on the less major cuts on his fingertips and putting adhesive tape on to keep the gauze together. “Listen, try not to be too rough on your hands, you don’t want to make the wounds heal slower by reopening them.”

 

“You say that like ’m gonna get into a bunch of fistfights or somethin’,” Jermaine comments with a laugh, sleepiness heavy in his voice.

 

Miguel chuckles. “I know. Just looking out, a bit of caution never hurt anybody.”

 

Jermaine smiles. “Thank you.”

 

“Can’t thank me just yet- you’ve still gotta get all of these clothes off, drink some water, and get into bed, and I don’t trust you to do that yourself, somehow,” Miguel says. “That is, unless you can say the alphabet backwards.”

 

Jermaine scoffs. “I’m not some baby, I can do that.”

 

“Do it, then,” Miguel challenges.

 

“A, B, C, D, E, F, G- must I go on, Miguel? Or am I making you upset because I proved you wrong?” Jermaine shoots back.

 

Miguel snorts at the response, too entertained by Jermaine’s antics to tell him what he’s doing wrong. “Oh, no, please do go on. Don’t let my ego and I stop you, feel free to completely prove me wrong.”

 

“What letter was I on? I think it was G. H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P,” Jermaine replies, a cocky and lopsided grin on his face. “Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, and, last but definitely, positively not least- Z. Lemme go t’ sleep.”

 

“I told you to say it backwards. That was _definitely, positively_ not backwards. You’re drunk, let me help you,” Miguel says with a laugh as Jermaine scowls. “Let’s get you out of these clothes. If that’s alright with you, I mean.”

 

Jermaine smirks. “You know what? I’m cool with this. Take my clothes off.”

 

Miguel’s stomach turns, but Miguel jumps over it and forces a laugh. “Aw, don’t say it like that, you make it sound all weird. Pervert.”

 

“And they say chivalry is dead, huh?” Jermaine asks playfully as Miguel unzips his hoodie for him and pulls it off.

 

Miguel laughs quietly, his fingers grazing the hem of Jermaine’s shirt. “I can help you take this off, right?” Miguel asks, sounding hesitant and timid, fearing rejection. He knows that none of this is even really necessary; nobody ever really needs help taking their own clothes off.

 

Doesn’t stop him from trying, though.

 

Jermaine looks at Miguel for a few moments before he nods. “I don’t really hit the gym, though, so don’t get your hopes up about what you’ll see.” He laughs nervously.

 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Miguel says reassuringly. “I don’t care about how anyone’s body looks. Plus, I don’t have any reason to pass judgement on your body anyway. Don’t sweat it.”

 

Miguel smiles at Jermaine and he relaxes. Miguel hadn’t even realized how much tension he’d been holding in his shoulders; he must’ve been too caught up in his own thoughts about him to notice.

 

Miguel begins to pull Jermaine’s shirt up, knuckles brushing against his skin softly, and Jermaine raises his arms so the shirt can be pulled over his head. Both of them can hear the way their hearts pound in their ears, and it leaves both of them feeling euphoric but helpless in every sense of the word.

 

Miguel’s eyes follow his hands as they go up with the shirt. The soft fabric between his fingers makes him feel strangely at ease; it makes him feel like his entire life has led up to this moment, like he was made specifically to be in this situation with Jermaine.

 

He stands on the tips of his toes in an attempt to get the shirt completely off, but it doesn’t work.

 

“Jermaine, I’m too short,” Miguel says. “I can’t take your shirt all the way off.”

 

Jermaine laughs and slips the shirt off himself. He watches Miguel and takes note of how his eyes are fixed to his body, how he’s taking in every single inch of him that’s exposed as if he’ll never see any of it again.

 

With the way the night is going, neither of them can tell if they’ll ever see the other again, so it might just be in their best interests to act accordingly.

 

“Miguel, my eyes are up here,” Jermaine says, trying his best to sound casual and lighthearted. The result doesn’t come close; in fact, it comes off as strained and pitiful and dry.

 

Miguel’s eyes meet Jermaine’s and they share a nervous laugh before Jermaine gives Miguel a look of expectancy.

 

“What?” Miguel asks.

 

Jermaine answers with his own question. “Aren’t you gonna help me, like, take everything else off?” He feels bad for asking Miguel a question like that. If it weren’t for the alcohol in his system, he’d have never done it.

 

Miguel wants to tell Jermaine that, yes, he’d absolutely love to take him up on the offer of pulling his pants off, but he hasn’t even known Jermaine for an entire day. In addition to that, those actions wouldn’t line up with the ‘no ulterior motives’ motto he’s taken for the night.

 

Miguel rolls his eyes. “Jermaine, you’re drunk, but you’re not five years old,” he says playfully. “Take your own pants and shoes off.”

 

“Since you asked so nicely, I’ll take my pants off,” Jermaine replies with a grin, messing with his belt buckle.

 

Miguel rolls his eyes and takes note of the mess on the counter, taking the time to tidy up and put Claire’s things back so that she wouldn’t suspect that anyone messed with them. He hears Jermaine inhale sharply and he turns around.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, my fingers just hurt, but it’s nothing,” Jermaine says.

 

“I just wanted to- oh. Oh my goodness, do you want me to like, look away or something?” Miguel asks when he notices Jermaine unbuttoning his pants. “Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable or seem like I’m a creep or anything.”

 

Jermaine shakes his head as he unzips his pants. “I don’t mind, I don’t really have nothin’ to hide.” He pulls his pants down to his knees and shrugs. “See? Nothin’ special about it, just a man in his boxers.”

 

“You really do not have a problem with near-strangers seeing you in your underwear,” Miguel tells him with a snort. “Which, may I add, are some very nice underwear.”

 

Jermaine looks down at his boxer shorts, which are a plain white aside from ‘WARNING! Choking Hazard!’ printed a few inches beneath the waistband in bold blue. He looks back up at Miguel and cheeks flush; he tries to hide it by looking down at his shoes as he takes them off. “Thank you, I got them as a Christmas present.”

 

“Whoever got you those must be really good at giving gifts,” Miguel says matter-of-factly as he leans on the counter. “They look great on you.”

 

As soon as the words leave Miguel’s mouth, he desperately wishes he could take them back. He thinks he must sound so ridiculous; who compliments someone they barely know on how their underwear look on them?

 

Jermaine looks at Miguel for what feels like an eternity with a disbelieving smile on his face before he laughs. “Thanks for the compliment.” He sounds as if he’s moments away from settling for drifting off to sleep standing up and his sentence is punctuated with a yawn.

 

“You really need to get some rest,” Miguel says. He checks his watch and sees that it’s almost two o’clock in the morning.

 

Jermaine yawns again and nods, shuffling sluggishly out of the bathroom and to his bed a few feet away. He falls face first onto it and groans, bunching the sheets up in his arms. “My bed!” He exclaims with relief, tossing and turning until he’s lying in a more normal and comfortable position.

 

Miguel smiles fondly at the sight, taking time to sit back and admire Jermaine for a moment before he realizes that he should give him some water; even though no amount of it is going to help his hangover in the morning, it’s still good to stay hydrated. That’s what Miguel figures, at least.

 

He quietly makes a trip to the kitchen, stopping to pick up the shards of glass left on the floor before he gets a cup of water for Jermaine. He goes back into the bedroom to find him sitting up in bed, propped up on his elbows.

 

“I thought you left me without saying goodbye,” Jermaine said. “I also thought I wouldn’t get a chance to thank you.”

 

Miguel gives Jermaine a slight smile and a shake of his head as he hands him the glass of water. “You don’t have to thank me. I know I’d want someone to help me out if I got into a similar situation.”

 

Jermaine finishes his water rather quickly. “Oh, no, I was going to thank you for putting up with me.”

 

“Again, you don’t have to. I was just trying to be decent,” Miguel tells him. “I got out of staying at that party for longer than I had to anyway, so that’s a great thing for me.”

 

Jermaine chuckles. “Glad I could help out, Miguel.”

 

Miguel and Jermaine smile at each other awkwardly and deafening silence hangs between them. Miguel is the one to break it.

 

“Well, I should be getting home,” Miguel says with a sigh. “It’s late. It was nice meeting you, Jermaine.”

 

“It, uh- It was nice meeting you too,” Jermaine replies. A lump is in his throat and he can’t explain why. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows, but the combination of fatigue and intoxication that he’s experiencing is taking a toll on him.

 

“Maybe we’ll see each other on campus sometime.”

 

“Maybe,” Jermaine says quietly, lying back down. As soon as his head hits the pillow, his eyes close; with every passing second, he gets closer to sleep. He turns on his side and his back is to Miguel. “Goodnight, Miguel.”

 

Miguel waits a few moments to see if he says anything else. He doesn’t, so Miguel makes his way out of Jermaine’s room and into the kitchen, where he takes everything in as if it’s the last time he’ll ever see it. He sees a notepad on the counter; he knows he shouldn’t be so nosy, but he reads it.

 

_matt, it’s your turn to take the trash out... lazy ass motherfucker_

_i’m_ _not_ _letting you get out of it like you did last time_

_-J :) ← passive aggressive “i’m gonna kick your dumb ass if you don’t take the trash out” smiley face_

 

Miguel laughs quietly and shakes his head. Before he can think clearly about what he’s doing, he’s taking a pen he’s found nearby, flipping to a new page in the notepad, ripping it out, and writing his number on it. He writes his name under his number and then stares at the piece of paper as if he expects it to tell him what to do next, as if he doesn’t already know what he’s going to do next.

 

He walks back to Jermaine’s bedroom, his footsteps light and his movements quick and quiet. He feels like some kind of spy, and that makes Miguel happy; it takes the edge off of the anxiety that everything he’s experienced has given him. He sees that, to his knowledge, Jermaine is still asleep, and he puts the piece of paper on the nightstand next to his bed.

 

“Goodnight, J,” Miguel says softly as he leaves the bedroom (and, shortly after, the apartment itself) for good.

 

He catches the bus and texts Naz when he gets home since she isn’t there.

 

**YOU - TODAY, 2:20 AM** : i’m home

**YOU - TODAY, 2:21 AM:** i also wanted to thank you for basically forcing me to go to this party

**YOU - TODAY, 2:21 AM:** if you knew about the night i had you’d lose it… also, stay safe and wake me up when u get home bc i’ll definitely still be asleep by the time u get here ☺️

 

Miguel thinks that Naz should convince him to do shit he hates more often.

 

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this took 2 long to write but i hope u all like it!! as always u can leave suggestions or questions or whatever in the comments!!! :-)


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